These two eyes no longer shall pewter behold,
For a pair I’ll get measur’d of ready-made breeches,
And copper both pockets with pure virgin gold.
II.
Come then brother Pats and pack up your odd matters,
Leave nothing behind you but what you can take,
’Tis your turn to laugh at John Bull’s rags and tatters,
No longer at Pat can he fun and game make.
No more with sweet butter-milk whitewash your bodies,
No more with potatoes your full stomachs cram,